Promised On Stars
You promised.
The words had been spoken, whispered, hummed in the middle of a moment of emotions, of feelings and thoughts and memories. They had been an anchor, reminding her what was real and what was want and what was smart and what was hope.
Ahsoka closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, remembering that day and the things she said and the things he said, and all the things they might have said but didn't.
Leaving, it had been the best option for her, the smartest, the safest. And for a moment, more than fleeting but less than lasting, she was going to ask him to come with her. The words had been there, on her tongue, on her lips. They had been there, ready to be spoken, but then she the moment passed and she remembered that leaving was safest for her.
It was the most dangerous thing for him.
He had a moment, too. She could sense it, sense the intention and the thought, and so she whispered the words, breathed them against his skin, hoping he would hear her near inaudible words, knowing he would understand which promise she referenced.
He'd called her kid. He hadn't done that, not for months. She wasn't a kid anymore, not really. She had seen too much, done too much to be a kid. But she was still older than him. She was older than him, and yet—yet he was the adult.
He had been patient with her questions; not always kind, but always, always patient. He had laughed with her; even if he was having a bad day, even if he didn't want to, he would, because sometimes she needed his laughter more than she needed her own. He had watched over her, covered her, protected her.
He had given her his promise.
It had taken a while for her to understand, and then she didn't quite grasp the meaning behind it. She knew it was important—oh, Force, was it important—but she didn't know why and she didn't know how. But she'd started to recognize it, recognize when he was acting on his promise, when he was adding a new bit.
The words were never spoken, not out loud, not directly. It was said with smiles and laughter and jokes, in pain and tears and blood. It was said with soft words, soft corrections, and harsh words, harsh reprimands. It was him to her, always him to her. And it was important and meaningful and something that was beyond her comprehension because she was a Jedi, and Jedi didn't have attachments.
Jedi didn't have promises to give.
Jedi didn't have promises to receive.
But he'd given. He'd given so much of himself to her, more than she had ever realized, until that moment, at the base of the Temple steps. Until she looked in his eyes, eyes that were sometimes an angry brown, sometimes a smiling amber, and sometimes honey. She looked, and she saw. She saw the brown and the amber and the honey, and beyond that she saw stars.
Stars full of memories, stars full of dreams. Stars of knowledge and wisdom and things she would never understand, because she was a Jedi and he was a clone, and clones had stars of promises, and Jedi never did.
"Hi, Rexster."
She hadn't called him that in about as long as he'd called her 'kid.' But his eyes brightened, the stars glowed, and she suddenly regretted not using the nickname more often. And he'd responded with 'kid,' and her stomach clenched, heart clenched, because no one could put any more warmth in those three letters than he did.
She couldn't look at him, not as she told him the three words that crushed her heart. She couldn't look at him, she didn't have to. His reaction was as clear through the Force as it would've been through her own eyes. It was clear and strong, and he remained soft and gentle, and all of it together made her eyes burn with a pain she wouldn't let him see.
That was when she sensed his intention, saw his mouth open, saw the stars brighten and fade all at the same time. She put her hand to his cheek. Her fingers were cold and his skin was hot, and she wondered if she had touched him more, if it would make this better or worse.
She closed his mouth, brushed her fingers along his face. "You promised, Rex."
Because he had to remember. He had to remember that he had made the same promise to two entirely different things. And a promise like that can only be kept to one.
He bowed his head and fire burned her suddenly, scorching through her veins down to her toes. She stretched up and he bent down and she wasn't sure who started it, but it was world-shattering. She could see him, more clearly, more defined than she ever had before.
He had opened himself up to her, allowing her access to every single part of him, and in that instant, the instant of more dreams than reality, she saw the burning star in him, in his heart and his mind and his soul that was his promise.
And she saw the love he kept locked away in the darkest parts of him, a love he wouldn't ever acknowledge because he was a clone and she was a Jedi, and clones had promises and Jedi didn't.
And then she stepped back and so did he and she smiled because it was the last gift she could think of giving him.
She had turned and walked one way, and he had turned and walked the other, and she hadn't seen him since. She had built a new life for herself, one where she could live and love, but she didn't give up his promise. She kept it tucked away in her heart and her mind, his promise and his love and all the hopes he had given her.
You promised.
He had, but she had, too. She had learned, learned how to promise, and she had made him one. One he wouldn't ever know, but one all the same.
One that she hoped would help him, because he had made the same promise to the Army, and you could only keep that promise to one.
I did, Captain. I'll take care of them for you.
Maybe there'll be a part three; who knows? I certainly don't.
Read, review. Enjoy!
(Or cry a little. That's what I did while writing this.)